Page 125 of Troubled Blood

Pat counted out tenners for Barclay, toward whom her attitude was tolerant rather than warm. Pat’s favorite member of the agency, apart from Robin, remained Morris, whom Robin had met only three times since New Year: twice when swapping over at the end of a surveillance shift and once when he’d come into the office to leave his week’s report. He’d found it difficult to meet her eye and talked about nothing but work, a change she hoped would be permanent.

“Who’s next on the client waiting list, Pat?” she asked, while making coffee.

“We havenae got the manpower for another case the noo,” said Barclay flatly, pocketing his cash. “Not wi’ Strike off.”

“He’ll be back on Sunday, as long as the trains are running,” said Robin, putting Pat’s coffee down beside her. They’d arranged to meet Cynthia Phipps the following Monday, at Hampton Court Palace.

“I need a weekend back home, end o’ the month,” Barclay told Pat, who in Strike’s absence was in charge of the rota. As she opened it up on her computer, Barclay added, “Migh’ as well make the most of it, while I dinnae need a passport.”

“What d’you mean?” asked the exhausted Robin, sitting down on the sofa in the outer office with her coffee. She was, technically, off duty at the moment, but couldn’t muster the energy to go home.

“Scottish independence, Robin,” said Barclay, looking at her from beneath his heavy eyebrows. “I ken you English’ve barely noticed, but the union’s about tae break up.”

“It won’t really, will it?” said Robin.

“Every fucker I know’s gonna vote Yes in September. One o’ me mates from school called me an Uncle Tam last time I wus home. Arsehole won’t be doin’ that again,” growled Barclay.

When Barclay had left, Pat asked Robin,

“How’s his aunt?”

Robin knew Pat was referring to Strike, because she never referred to her boss by name if she could help it.

“Very ill,” said Robin. “Not fit for more chemotherapy.”

Pat jammed her electronic cigarette between her teeth and kept typing. After a while, she said,

“He was on his own at Christmas, upstairs.”

“I know,” said Robin. “He told me how good you were to him. Buying him soup. He was really grateful.”

Pat sniffed. Robin drank her coffee, hoping for just enough of an energy boost to get her off this sofa and onto the Tube. Then Pat said,

“I’d’ve thought he’d’ve had somewhere to go, other than the attic.”

“Well, he had flu really badly,” said Robin. “He didn’t want to give it to anyone else.”

But as she washed up her mug, put on her coat, bade Pat farewell and set off downstairs, Robin found herself musing on this brief exchange. She’d often pondered the, to her, inexplicable animosity that Pat seemed to feel toward Strike. It had been clear from her tone that Pat had imagined Strike somehow immune to loneliness or vulnerability, and Robin was puzzled as to why, because Strike had never made any secret of where he was living or the fact that he slept there alone.

Robin’s mobile rang. Seeing an unknown number, and remembering that Tom Turvey had been on the other end of the line the last time she’d answered one, she paused outside Tottenham Court Road station to answer it, with slight trepidation.

“Is this Robin Ellacott?” said a Mancunian voice.

“It is,” said Robin.

“Hiya,” said the woman, a little nervously. “You wanted to talk to Dave Underwood. I’m his daughter.”

“Oh, yes,” said Robin. “Thank you so much for getting back to me.”

Dave Underwood was the man who’d been employed to drive a wholefoods shop van at the time that Margot Bamborough went missing. Robin, who’d found his address online and written him a letter three days previously, hadn’t expected such a quick response. She’d become inured to people ignoring her messages about Margot Bamborough.

“It was a bit of a shock, getting your letter,” said the woman on the phone. “The thing is, Dad can’t talk to you himself. He had a tracheotomy three weeks ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Robin, one finger in the ear not pressed to the phone, to block out the rumbling traffic.

“Yeah,” said the woman. “He’s here with me now, though, and he wants me to say… look… he’s not going to be in trouble, is he?”

“No, of course not,” said Robin. “As I said in my letter, it really is just about eliminating the van from inquiries.”

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